


Shed Your Tears, Clear The Way

by xbedhead



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Canon, Gen, Missing Scene, Recovery, if you haven't seen Skyfall by now, kindness of strangers, you deserve to be spoiled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbedhead/pseuds/xbedhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He experiences agony in a nebular form - it's all around him, inside and out.</p><p>It's dark when he awakens and worry creeps at the edges of consciousness. He thinks for a moment that maybe he's blind, but it's an unformed thought and all he can summon the strength for is to fall back to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shed Your Tears, Clear The Way

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second piece in the Bond/Skyfall fandom. I hope you like it. It isn't beta'd, but I don't imagine the grammar and spelling is too terribly far off.

He experiences agony in a nebular form - it's all around him, inside and out.

It's dark when he awakens and worry creeps at the edges of consciousness. He thinks for a moment that maybe he's blind, but it's an unformed thought and all he can summon the strength for is to fall back to sleep.

-*-

He hears noises, a tiny _thump, thump, thump_ , then feels heat, a soft warmth on his arm. When his eyelids creak open, he sees a a blur, a mass of brown hair, curls, by his forearm. This miniature face has eyes, a nose, a mouth - and it's smiling back at him.

" _Are you awake?_ " the face asks him, but the tongue is foreign, separated by a chasm of misfiring synapses in his brain.

He thinks he should reply, but has forgotten how to speak. So he closes his eyes and slips back into the water.

-*-

He can't pinpoint what wakes him - the dreadful braying of a burro, the strong scent of coffee, or the pulse of pain streaming from the base of his skull downward. All of these sensations work their way through the haze in his brain and make themselves apparent at once, crashing into his cognition with a whipping fury. He becomes aware of a dreadful sort of moaning only moments before he realizes the noise is emanating from somewhere deep in his throat. 

_Take the shot._

It echoes in his ears and he snaps awake, a sudden jolt of adrenalin - _fear_ \- fighting through the fog for him. He expects to hear the crack of gunfire and when it doesn’t come, the donkey and the pain comes flooding back.

He has no idea where he is, but the thought that he should be dead briefly crosses his mind. The hard drive, Ronson, the motorcycle chase and the train come rushing back to him.

_Take the bloody shot._

It rings just as loudly in his ears as when he’d had his comm device in.

He doesn’t want to think about that - _can’t_ think about that – if he’s going to get up and get moving. He isn’t sure whose bed he’s lying in and there isn’t a gun or weapon in sight. The journey to the bathroom is slow – his stomach and chest are aching something fierce and he knows there are multiple ribs broken, his arms and legs feel like deadweight, like his torso is dragging four rotten limbs along behind it. His urine is a little pink, but it’s nothing like he would’ve expected for the way that his back hurts. He has several days of beard growth when he looks in the mirror and he wonders how much time has passed.

He’s stumbling back into the bedroom when a woman walks in. She’s holding a stack of linens, her dark hair long and curling about her shoulders, her nose is long, her lips thin. She’s beautiful, though her eyes make her look old. He can see fear in them, so he doesn’t move until she gestures to the bed. He moves slowly toward the lumpy mattress, keeping eye contact with her until his knee touches the frame. He eases himself into the bed, deep lines of pain etched into his face.

Only when the sheet is pulled up around his chest does she move further into the room. The linens are deposited into a cabinet he hadn’t yet noticed, but she keeps out a light blanket, drapes it over his chest with wary eyes.

He’s thirsty now and nearly curses that he’d forgotten to take a sip from the bathroom tap. She murmurs something to him in a foreign language – Turkish, he’s assuming – and pulls the blanket up a little higher. He forces a smile, if only to settle her nerves, and her face softens.

It’s the last thing he remembers before drifting back to the blackness.

-*-

The second time he wakes, it’s the middle of the night. The house is still, even the animals outside are asleep. He can hear the faint sound of rushing water nearby. It sends a shudder through his body. 

His stomach rumbles and he remembers the sandpaper coating the inside of his mouth. With a grunt he rolls from bed, panting hard by the time he’s pushed himself up to sitting. He lets his eyes adjust to the dark before moving from the bedroom into the short hallway. There’s a light coming from one end and he staggers toward it. 

When he rounds the edge of the doorframe, he sees a man and a woman at tiny breakfast table. The woman he recognizes from earlier, but the man is new, his thick mustache and muscled shoulders would’ve stood out, even in the haze of his waking dreams.

The man gestures to a chair across from him and stumbles around, “My English. Not good.”

“Neither is my Turkish,” he deadpans to no ones satisfaction but himself. Bond takes the seat gingerly and sighs in relief when the woman places a saucer of dried meat and flat bread in front of him. He takes a few bites cautiously, aware on some level that even his teeth hurt, while the man across from him takes a long drink from a cloudy bottle. 

Neither says anything until a little bundle of hair and giggles comes storming into the room. The little girl hides in the folds of her mother’s apron and peeks at him with one eye. He remembers her from before, her laugh. The woman guides her away, back into the hall and to, he assumes, her bedroom. Maybe it isn’t as late as he thought. He doesn’t see a clock anywhere – not on the walls, not on the shelf. There are no electronics, not even a refrigerator.

“Feel better?” the man asks after Bond has polished off half the meat and bread.

Bond nods, letting a grateful smile pass over his lips. “Yes, a little. Thank you.”

The man seems to consider this and takes another drink before putting it down. “Tomorrow you leave.”

Bond nods slightly, understanding their reluctance to keep him around. He has yet to venture out of the house, but he can imagine what kind of stir having rescued a white man from the river might’ve caused for this man and his family. He has no idea where their sympathies lie, but if they had a mind to sell him off to some terrorist offshoot operating in the area, he supposes they would’ve encouraged him to stick around a little while longer. 

The man pours three fingers of the clear liquid into a tumbler and slides it across the scratched surface of the table. Bond licks his fingers, having demolished the meat and bread by now, and takes the glass. 

It’s a strong sort of vodka, definitely local, tasting of a mix between gasoline and fertilizer, but it sends a sudden warmth cascading through his body. His limbs are thick, heavy and he enjoys the moment where all he can think on are those sensations. He takes another drink, then another and the glass is empty. It makes his eyes burn when he breathes through his nostrils.

The woman returns then, stands close to her husband as she asks, “Water?”

Bond nods and takes the small mug gratefully after she’s filled and handed it to him. He finishes it off in two long gulps and sets it down on the table with a satisfied sigh. “Thank you.”

When he returns to his room he sees a small stack of clothing at the foot of the bed. The clothes are clean and pressed. The woman has obviously scrubbed on the material of his dress shirt, the edges of the hole frayed and ripped further. The white fabric is still stained by his blood, a pinkish brown just over his chest. But it’s wearable and he appreciates the effort. His pants are beneath it followed by another button down shirt, a sweater, a t-shirt and a pair of pants. There is a belt on the floor next to a pair of boots and one of his shoes. He surmises that the other one didn’t make the fall.

The alcohol has made him lightheaded and he sinks back into the softness of the mattress.

Tomorrow he leaves. To where, he hasn’t a clue. The idea of reporting in to MI-6 hasn’t even crossed his mind.

 _Take the bloody shot_ echoes through his brain with a fury and he find his heart racing faster at the thought that M had barely hesitated before barking out the orders. 

She didn’t trust him. She didn’t think he could do his job, could retrieve the hard drive. He has no idea what would’ve happened had they disappeared into that tunnel, but he knows for damn sure he would’ve returned with that bloody piece of metal tied around his own wrist if it was the last thing he ever did.

-*-

The sun is barely creeping over the mountain line when he steps outside the house. They’ve packed him a small satchel of hard-boiled eggs, a block of cheese and some hard bread. There’s another bottle of the clear liquid tucked into the bottom of the bag and Bond has no illusions about it lasting until the end of the week. They send him off with a nod and a wave and quickly lock their door behind him. Bond considers the rising sun for a moment, then begins walking, heedless of the direction.

He has no idea where he’s going – except that it isn’t London.


End file.
